Page 95 of Drive

Xanadu.

One quick bite turned into a long, exchanged conversation. Nate told me about his sister Nikki who, like my sister, was also five years older than him, but married with four children. She lived in Georgetown, a town outside of Austin, along with his parents, who, according to Nate, were wealthy Republicans, God-fearing Christians, and had little tolerance for bullshit. The Butlers were family-focused and had been married for over thirty years, much like my parents. Nate had played basketball in high school and had gotten close to getting drafted his first year of college. He was a graduate ofUTand majored in journalism as well but remained in Austin to be close to his family. He was, in essence, a family man, but had no intentions of getting a family of his own anytime soon. His focus was his paper.

“What made you want to write?” I asked, my posture mirroring his.

“You may think it’s bullshit,” he said with a shrug. “It’s totally sentimental.”

“Try me,” I said, sinking into the booth, comfortably tired with a full belly. Rain streaked outside the window behind Nate as we sipped lukewarm coffee. Our table long-forgotten by our overly attentive waitress, who gave up on getting Nate’s attention an hour after we finished our sandwiches.

“9/11. More so, one of the casualty stories.”

It was the last answer I was expecting.

He ran a hand through his thick hair and put his forearms on the table, his suit jacket slung behind him. “So, I’m reading this article by some random. I don’t even remember his name, which is a shame because I would love to thank him one day. I’m in the back seat of my parents’ car after my second knee surgery. I still hadn’t declared a major because I was sure I would play for the Mavericks.” He gave me an eye roll. “And I’m reading this story about this man who’s trying to convey to his hysterical wife how much he loves her before his death. He’s trapped in the second tower. And she’s recounting the story to this reporter, who writes her emotion so vividly, Ifeltit. The story itself wasincredible. They were from the same hometown and moved to the same city and met in Iceland ofallfucking places. They both missed their first flight, which would have had them sitting side-by-side. They found that outafterthey started dating. With them, it was just one miraculous coincidence after another that brought them together. They were married for sixteen years.” He stared past me as if he knew them personally before he shook his head. “It did something to me I can’t explain, Stella. Fate brought them together and one horrible act of prejudice ended them.”

“That’s . . . wow.”

“I cried like a baby,” Nate said, owning it. “I told everyone that story.Everyone. For days, I just told and retold that story to as many people who would listen. My friends thought I’d gone nuts, and in a way, I had. I had to tell the story of Keira and David.”

“And a writer was born,” I added.

“I wish I could find that article,” he said, traying our empty plates. “I owe David a visit.”

“That’s kind of amazing,” I said, eyeing Nate. “The whole thing.”

“I thought so. Enough to spend the rest of my life making sure others get to read stories like that.”

“So, human interest is your jam?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely, and there’s a new story out there every day just as miraculous, uplifting, heartbreaking, or compelling. I got addicted then and eventually to all aspects of reporting.”

“AndSpeakwas born.”

“Yeah,” he said, with a glow I could only describe as wistful. In that moment, he looked a little younger than his years, and for a second, I saw that version of him holding that paper, letting his emotions get the best of him.

“9/11 changed a lot of lives. And that’s not bullshit, that’s a great story in itself, Nate. David’s death changed the course of your life.”

“Yeah, it did.”

“Were you always an avid reader?’

“Always, but there was a catch. I’m dyslexic. I never thought in a million years I could have a future as a writer. I put everything I had into basketball.”

My jaw dropped.

“My mother caught it early. She read to me every night when I was little. When it got to the point it would take me hours to get through a thirty-minute book, she was the one to bring it to my teacher’s attention.” He sighed. “Ms. Mary Zeigler, I loved that woman. I swear I fell in love for the first time when I was six. She broke my heart when she married Mr. Potter.” He deadpanned, “Mary Potter.”

I threw my head back and laughed.

“I went through it, phonics, vocabulary workshops,all of it. I took out my frustration on the ball. And my parents, namely my mother, made me read every single day. They had a fresh paper in most rooms of the house for me every morning, in the back seat of their car before every practice. I preferred shorter reads than books I couldn’t get involved in and had to leave idle.”

I was stunned . . . and impressed.

“Can’t put a book down?”

“Hell no. I read them cover to cover in one day. No other way to do it. Addicted to the high of reading and dyslexic. Ain’t that a bitch?” He chuckled. “But when I was young, I got truly captured by the stories when she read to me. They spoke to me in tidal waves, the imagery, I couldn’t get enough.”

“So, it worked. I mean, obviously it worked,” I said, shaking my head.